Ran through the woods for joy,
That heaven of our dreams.

There shall it shine
Under green boughs,
So long as May and June bring leaves and flowers,
Couches of moss and fern and woven bowers,
Still thine and mine,
A golden house;
And, perchance, e'er the winter that takes all,
I, there alone in the deep listening wood,
Shall hear thy lost foot-fall,
And, scarce believing the beatitude,
Shall know thee there,
Wild heart to wild heart pressed,
And wrap me in the splendour of thine hair,
And laugh within thy breast.




THE ROSE HAS LEFT THE GARDEN

The Rose has left the garden,
Here she but faintly lives,
Lives but for me,
Within this little urn of pot-pourri
Of all that was
And never more can be,
While her black berries harden